Oh, just remembered
My mate Carl used to be in a band that supported The Hollies on a tour some years ago. They'd finish and then go back to their piss poor dressing room. Then The Hollies would do their concert, finish and go back to their somewhat more lavish room. The Hollies gave Carl's band not one acknowledgment. Not a thanks, not a cheers, nothing.

When they arrived at the last gig of the tour, The Hollies were celebrating in their room before the start of the gig, a party that would end long after the gig had finished. Anyway, Carl went to their room to try and create a bit of rapport and hopefully get to join in with the celebrations. After all, they'd played just as many venues as they had.

The member of The Hollies showed him a bit of gratitude followed by something along the lines of "hadn't you better go get ready?"Carl replied with "Yeah sure, are we having a drink after the show?""Well we are, dunno what you lot are doing" and shut the door.

"Cunts" thought Carl. So when he and his band went on to open the show, they played The Hollies entire set in order, leaving them to come on and play exactly the same songs to an audience that had had their fill of those tracks.

After the gig, Carl's band were back in their pokey dressing room having a drink when one of The Hollies burst in."What the fuck do you think you're playing at??" he bellowed at them."We're having a drink, now fuck off and shut the door, you're letting a draft in"
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:24,
6 replies)

Stephen Hendry
Many years ago I was a barman at a large hotel in Blackpool. There was a big snooker comp on at a hotel up the road and lots of the players were staying at the hotel I worked at.

Around midnight, Hendry and 2 other players who I vaguely recognised came to the bar and one of the other 2 asked for 3 pints of whatever. As it was after hours, we were only serving residents so I asked them if they were residents in the hotel, the guy says Yes, I ask him for his keycard as proof, and after a bit of argy-bargy it turns out he's not staying at THIS hotel, but in another one up the road.

I politely inform him that he'll have to go up there to get a drink.

"But their bar shuts at Midnight"

I tell him I can't help him and he gets a right arse on. Tells me what an important player he is in the snooker competition that is filling the coffers of the hotel with off-season revenue & I bloody better had serve him.

Nope

At this point, Hendry swaggers to the fore and SLAPS his keycard on the counter - "I am staying at this hotel, I'll get the drinks"

I swear, I'd waited my whole life for a moment like this.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to serve you"

Hendry, incredulous "But I'm staying here, you have to serve me"

"I'm afraid not. You see, I was watching the snooker last night, and just before you potted the last black that got you through to the next round, David Vine mentioned that it's your 18th birthday next month, which makes you under age"

In a Jacuzzi no less...
Many moons ago I was fortunate enough to spend two weeks in a rather splendid hotel in Banff (Canada not Scotland) and was sat in the outdoor hottub when I looked across to see none other than curly hair transporter scamp and poor man's Scotty, Colm Meany (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000538/).

I was literally just about to ask if he was who I thought he was, and he knew it, as soon as I opened my mouth speak he gave me a look of utter disgust and snapped 'Yes, I'm an actor for fucks sake', in a ridiculous thespian voice. Bearing in mind I was 13ish at the time was rather cuntish of him.

Luckily a woman in our party was in the hot tub with her son and gave out the fastest, and probably most cutting response I have ever heard.

"Standing in the background on star trek does not make you an actor you obnoxious cunt'

He looked extremely embarrassed, and well he should the rude arrogant turd.
(evilamnesiacsays fuck you Prince, Thu 8 Oct 2009, 19:19,
1 reply)

Oliver Reed
Not my story unfortunately.

A friend used to drink in a rural Essex pub occasionally frequented by the great man. By her account he had an impressive sense of humour as you'd expect and was rarely short of a come back.

Anyway, our hero is relieving himself in the gents when a young chap sidles up at the next urinal and looks him up and down.

"That's not a very impressive one is it Oliver?" he says.

Without a pause, the actor replies.

"That may be so dear chap, but it has been inside Raquel Welch".
(Bicycle Repairman"you're also a bit of a wanker", Wed 14 Oct 2009, 13:52,
10 replies)

Wardrobe Malfunction! Wardrobe Malfunction!
Back in my early twenties I used to be a big fat fucker. If you gave me a choice between sex with a beautiful woman or a plate of donuts, I’d have chosen the donuts anytime. And after I’d polished off the donuts, licking the sugary goodness and saturated fat off my fingers, I’d probably have made full use of this beautiful woman by getting her to go out and pick me up a shitload more donuts. Then one day I realised enough was enough and I lost so much weight you could’ve made an exact replican of Susan Boyle with the excess flab. But being a bloke it took me a good long while to realise that I’d have to, grudgingly, fork out for a new wardrobe. My jeans and t-shirt were literally hanging off me. It came to a head when I was in that there fancy London visiting a mate for a long, lazy weekend.

We were strutting down Oxford Street, soaking in the sights, when I noticed someone famous was doing a book signing in Borders. It was none other than Ian Wright, the footballer and allround wideboy gobshite. Now, I really didn’t give a shit about Ian Wright. But my friend who was a dyed in the wool Arsenal supporter did. So we ended up joining a pretty long line of fanboys wanting to get the autobiography of this great mind of our age signed (probably with an ‘X’ in crayon).

As I’ve mentioned, I was now a thin man (well, thinner) wearing a fat man’s cloths. The main problem with this was that I didn’t own a belt. Never needed one before. In my previous fat life a belt was about as useful and practical to me as a virginity testing kit would be for Jordan. So I’m stood in line, hands in pockets, sort of holding my jeans up by clamping them against my legs. Occasionally reaching down to give them a tug if they slipped out of position. I’m starting to lose the will to live. The line isn’t moving fast enough.

But eventually we get to the front. Ian Wright grins a big toothy grin. Seems like a nice enough fella up close. My mate’s extatic, I think he might have got a sudden and rampant hard on at the sight of this slightly muscular black dude with a flat top haircut. My mate steps forward, offering a copy of Ian Wright’s autobiography for the great man to sign. In doing so he automatically passes me his shopping bags (we’d already been on Oxford Street for fucking ages). I automatically reached out both hands to take the bags.

My jeans automatically slip off my lithe frame and I effectively show one of England’s greatet ever footballers (allegedly) my wrinkled pants. This was made even worse because in the morning when I was getting ready, trying to do ten things at the same time, rushing round my mates kitchen wearing only my underwear, I accidentally dropped my toast into my lap. I remember brushing off the mess thinking: no one’s gonna see my pants, fuck it, doesn’t matter. So I didn't bother changing them.

Terrible thing is I had marmite on toast that morning. Ian Wright was very amused. His agent thought for one breif moment I was going to try and bum rape his client, standing there as I was with my jeans round my ankles, wearing shit-smeared boxers. To try and make the situation a little easier to bear I remember saying: "It's ok look," and reaching down, rubbing some of the brown stain onto my finger, and then raising it to my lips to lick and taste.
(Pastabatorearned his brown wings with your girlfriend on, Wed 14 Oct 2009, 10:26,
6 replies)

DiT, and the day Patriotism Died...
It was cold. So very, very cold. My breath fogged in the air as I cycled past Smithfields market on a freezing February evening in 2008. I had just purchased a shiny new red bicycle, I was riding it home, and all was good with the world. The market had closed for the evening, and there were still a few city workers straggling around the pubs and eateries that EC1 has to offer the world. Strangely, for this part of London, all seemed at peace and, I reflected, this was a wonderful city in a wonderful country.

That is, until the first police motorcycle shot past me at approximately 1,000 miles an hour, siren blaring (and if that wasn’t enough the rider was blowing on a whistle like his life depended on it). Screeching to a halt at a set of traffic lights, he continued blowing on his whistle for all he was worth while giving all sorts of hand gestures. The officer was stopping traffic with manic efficiency.

No sooner had this little mission been completed than a cavalcade of no less than seven police motorcyclists screamed past, each of them securing roads and blowing whistles and generally getting in the bloody way. “What’s this?” thought I, “Someone important approaches!” – never one to miss a signal, me. Carefully, I dismounted my bicycle, and stood to the side of the road. One, two, three Land Rovers with blacked-out windows sped past and then, emerging from the London night like a sleek, black Rolls Royce, came a sleek, black stretched Rolls Royce, travelling fairly slowly to negotiate the corner it was coming around.

And in the back seat of the Roller was a lady who looked very familiar. I had the oddest sensation that I’d licked her face on several hundred occasions, and that she tasted of glue. She was joined by an elderly chap who I was sure, if he had spoken to me, would have found some way to insult me. And then the penny dropped.

It was the bloody Queen.

The Queen! At Smithfields! And Phil was with her! And I’m stood right next to the car that is right now trying to get round the corner, with my new shiny red bike. What should I do? What should I do?

I’m afraid to say, dear reader, that I panicked. I didn’t display my behind, nor did I rush the car and start a revolution, nor did I flip the reigning Monarch the traditional ‘bird’. No. Somewhere, out of the deep recesses of my memory of my time in Air Cadets, came the idea that I am to respect and admire the Queen and so – and oh Lord is this shameful – I drew myself up to my full 5’ 7” (and a half, thank you so much), and I saluted. Long way up, short way down, eyes front. Respect.

What on earth did I think would happen? That Elizabeth Regina would call to her driver to “put the blady brakes orn”, leap out of the car and give me a knighthood plus land, a cash prize and a free go on Zara Phillips for being such a good, upstanding and patriotic citizen of the Empire?

Did she bollocks. Not a bloody flicker. I stood there, in the freezing cold of a February evening, saluting a woman and a man who were sat in the back seat of a stupidly long car by dint of coming out of the right womb, and they didn’t even look my way.

However, the people in the pub behind me were looking. And oh, how they laughed.

Bait and switch ...
Last night I happened to go along to the fantastic "Evening WIth Kevin Smith" at the indigo2.

Now the seats in the audience were a cramped and tight affair, and at 6'6" and pretty bulky there was insufficient legroom, let alone arse-space so I figured I'd resign myself to an Evening Propping Up The Bar (at the back of the room, so I'd not miss the show).

Kevin Smith opens up with one of his stories that I reckon goes on for maybe about 30 minutes when he points out the microphones and that they're there for us to ask our questions and I figure I'll never get the chance to do this ever again so I saunter down and get in behind a couple of people on one side of the stage.

Mr. Smith then starts answering questions and it seems to take an age for him to get round to me, long enough for him to switch out of his hockey jacket top and into a robe, and when he does reach me the mic isn't even working. I'm wondering if it's a sign I should duck out but I decide (or perhaps it was the pre-show booze that decided) I was definitely going to do this...

The mic comes on and he asks me my question, and in front of a packed house I start to ask my question.

"As a fat, bearded, glasses-wearing Kevin, ..."

And then I pause for a beat and he's looking at me obviously unsure where this is going because I'm far from a small guy, and the crowd seems a little stunned, but I continue"...I've had my share of abuse over the years and I wanted to ask you ..."

He cuts me off, looking somewhere between relieved and surprised.

"Hang on, is your name Kevin too?"

"Yeah"

"You should come up on stage!"

And I look around thinking he's joking but he's all "no, seriously, the guy will show you how to come up, and I'll answer the next dude's question while you're making your way round."

So I make my way around the back, up on stage and he's answering the question when I appear behind him, looming a little, and he turns to me and invites me to sit on his couch, slap-bang in the middle of the stage, while he continues to answer the next guy's question. He then comes over, asks me to take my jacket off and hands me his hockey jacket, and asks me to put it on and zip it up and then sit back down. So I do. He then gets me a spare mic and sits next to me and asks me my questions. So I finish up asking the question, which concludes with me asking him what he's had to face since he got famous, and we chat a little, and then a few other questions. And I'm thinking "ok, this is a sympathy spotlight thing". And then he says "Hey, do you wanna stay up here for the rest of the show?"

"If it's cool with you it's cool with me."

And that's how I spent most of an Evening with Kevin Smith, with Kevin Smith, on stage. Admittedly most of it he was up on his feet wandering around, and I was just sat there on the couch/sofa thing trying to remain relatively inconspicuous, answering a few things he asked me.

After the gig I got to pop backstage but he was obviously tired and, hey, as much as he knew my name I could have been anybody so I felt slightly out of place (and my wife was still out front), but he offered me a photo (taken with the shitty camera on my phone) - twitpic.com/lfmgo - and he and his crew were pretty cool about the whole thing and saying I was a good sport for sticking it out up there, and then I left him to do whatever he does when he finishes a gig.

So, I managed to sit in comfort throughout the whole show, and get bought beer (I had 3 beers from people in the audience randomly buying me some whilst I was up on stage), and sit as close to the man as was possible.

I call that a successful evening (with Kevin Smith), even if it isn't a successful QotW answer as I was never actually rude to the guy.

I used to live near Rod Hull
One day, I was walking the dog past his house and I saw that Rod was up on his roof. He appeared to be fixing his TV aerial. I shouted "Oi! Rod" and waved. He just disappeared down the other side of the roof, didn't wave or anything. Miserable bastard.
(stopmeandslapmeCometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:57,
1 reply)

When I'm drunk
I tend to turn on my PC when I get home. Now if I'm barely-able-to-stand-up, projectile vomitting style drunk, I'm usually safe as I can't get past the login screen. When I'm slightly tipsy drunk I'm not too bad as I still have enough sense not to send or post anything too damaging. However, when I'm 8 pints on an empty stomach pissed I'm a dangerous animal and my own worst enemy.

You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning with a raging hangover and you're slowly starting to piece the world back together again? What happened last night, how did I get home, what did I... and then there it is. The recollection of exactly what you did last night. Added to the splitting headache and delicate stomach you now have twisting knots of nausea and self loathing.

Why, why, why, did I spend an hour writing an email at 01:00 and click send?

After sending this particular mail I literally couldn't bring myself to check my email for an entire week. I missed trips to the cinema/pub/gigs etc. and was accused of rudely ignoring people but I couldn't admit to anyone what I'd done. So for ultimate catharthis I'll confess to the world instead... *sigh*

I rather like the cheeky, cute, pint sized, elvish stand-up comedienne Lucy Porter. So much so I turn up to her shows early to get a seat on the front row hoping for interaction instead of my usual hiding a good few rows back in obscure safety. Once when I was randomly in Edinburgh I ended up going to see her Fringe show on my own (and queued behind Toby the serial killer from Hollyoakes - two celebrity stories for the price of one here!) The last time she came to Cambridge I went along to see her with a female friend L and was keen to try and get some audience participation with her.

And thankfully I didn't have to try too hard, Ms Porter had arranged a music quiz as part of her show. I know every song ever in the entire history of music so thought I'm well in with a shout here. Feeling not very nervous owing to my several pints of Dutch courage the opening bars of Gold by The Sugarcubes started playing throughout the hall and I was shocked to find my hand was the only one raised.

"Sugarcubes. Erm, Gold."

"That's right! Come up on stage and choose a prize."

"That gold beer thingy."

Tiny bit of chat and I was back in my chair feeling all giddy, happily drinking my godawful tin of tramp strength beer. My mate L and I managed to have a few words with her after the show and give her directions out of Cambridge (no mean feat). I continued drinking my way through town slowly working homeward.

It's at this point when I stupidly remember how Lucy kindly offered all us punters the chance to contact her for free tickets to pre-Fringe shows. Contact her by email that is. I fired up the PC, composed the following, spell checked it to fuck and hit send before stumbling upstairs for some well deserved shuteye.

From: meTo: Lucy PorterSubject: thank you for the gold label---I very much enjoyed the can of barley wine as it helped me on my journey to the destination I finally arrived at - home, and merrily pissed. I hope you also made it home safe due to, or even in spite of, mine and L's directions.

I'm myname, the long haired bloke who liked The Sugarcubes, Neil Young, Shed Seven and music quizzes in general. If you ever feel like hosting another in Cambridge let me know and I'll be sure to attend.

Attached is a picture not of a trophy cabinet but my living room windowsill. From left to right it contains: a limited edition bottle of Kahlua, The Big Lebowski is my favourite film and I'm more than a bit partial to a White Russian or seven; a strange one-off trophy given to me by my parents of an apple carved from wood which is a bit of a family in-joke (it's a long story); the very lovely, if slightly difficult to drink, tin of barley wine I was generously awarded this evening; and finally Gerald, my sunshine buddy.

I imagine that being as you are a famous person there is a significant amount of asynchronicity regarding the information known about you. To balance this out - if you're interested in the slightest that is - I post answers to b3ta's Question Of The Week (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/ - the Best Of page to the previous weeks questions is 24 carat comedy *ahem* gold ;)

This website which is a favourite of sick minded London commuters has this section whereby people are invited to post their amusing tales to random weekly questions. My most popular answers can be found here, www.b3ta.com/users/profile.php?id=30288. If you do a search on this page for "Gerald" you can find the story behind my little green sunshine buddy who now sits next to an empty can of high strength Gold Label.

So thank you Ms Porter for a most entertaining evening. I saw your Fringe show about Love in Edinburgh a couple of years back. I saw it again when you played the Junction in Cambridge. Of course by then the conclusion of the show was a little more bitter sweet as you were no longer with the man who you wooed so successfully with your nurse's outfit. I'd like to point out now that, as the only prize winning bloke whose relationship status was not questioned, I am very much single. If you're at all interested in changing this state of affairs feel free to email back and I will whisk you off your feet in a blaze of romantic whisking.

Or is this the kind of thing you get from internet based weirdos every week and you're sick to the back teeth of it?

myname---

When I finally logged back into my email I was relieved to find no reply. However, if anyone has seen her standup routine since this summer can they confirm that it doesn't contain any material based on me and my ultra cool chat up technique?
(djtrialprice, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 15:54,
19 replies)

Jodie Marsh
To my eternal shame, I once slept with Jodie Marsh. She had a tattoo of a sea-shell on her inner thigh, and when I put my ear to it, I could smell the sea.
(Monkey the ChickenTwitter: death_stairs, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 14:30,
1 reply)

Winning friends and influencing people
Posted this before but it's perfik for this week.

Back in the Harlequin’s misspent youth while at a higher learning institution he dallied with the idea of PR as a possible profession. It’s mostly filled with nubile blonde ladies, famous sorts and free stuff thought I. In order to truly live up to the middle class stereotype I skipped all that pesky interview nonsense and used nepotism to get some work experience. A friend’s mum is MD at a London agency and a quick chat and bit of charm got me in to learn the ropes. Trendy Soho sorts everywhere, the aforementioned females of blonde persuasion and some interesting stuff to work on, namely London Fashion Week.

I’ll say straight off that it was epic fun. Being one of five straight men in a three mile square radius with lots of stunning women running around drunk, stoned or high as a kite led to some rather enjoyable experiences to the extent that I went back to do three more seasons. The last one was the best as the harlequin had his job nailed – basically looking after the photographers and TV crews – and was a little older and wiser. Now fashion sorts are, with very few exceptions, a daft and bloody useless bunch and this extends to their own PRs. All of these seem to be twenty-something girls in leggings and acid yellow hot pants with clipboards and headset microphones. Buggered if I know who they were talking to on these, they were never on the event channels and their job seemed to be to run around and get in peoples way and annoy everyone.

So it was that on the last day of the week the Harlequin found himself arguing with one of these little darlings over why the show for the designer she was working for was running 45 minutes late. Lots of annoyed looking journos, celeb types and fashion people in the audience and Harlequin was getting an earful from the photographers as they had to be at another show at a different venue ASAP. So Harlequin tries to find out what the hold up is and is going backstage when he is waylaid by a slightly frazzled looking hot pant wearer.

“I know, I am staff and I need to know what’s taking so long as I’ve got forty increasingly annoyed photographers to calm down.” I fire back as I pull out the all access spiffy blue “god” pass that proved I was one of the anointed. “Now be a dear and run along and count the chairs or something” I snapped. It had been a long week, with a number of late nights involving booze and women in overly large quantities and so the fuse was pretty short.

I sauntered backstage to see a line of models ready to go and the stylists all looking nervously at a corner table where there appeared to be five people all talking at the top of their voices at the same time. One was the designer in question and he was looking increasingly agitated as I wondered over. Heads turned as I approached - the Harlequin is a tall chap – and a woman I then recognise turns in her seat. It’s a certain English supermodel with a reputation for throwing things at assistants and getting booted off airplanes. Shit the fucking bed. And now she’s glaring at me and barks in a somewhat testy tone “Well?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering when the show is going to start”

“Who are you?”

“I work for Fashion Week, I’m a liaison for the photographers and television crews”

“That’s nice for you but we’ll start when I’m ready” she announces haughtily

“I’m sure that’s the case but I was hoping it would be soon as you’re running rather behind time and the guests and the media are getting quite restless."

“They’ll wait for me, they always do. It’s not my fault anyway. Those stupid women – she indicates the stylists – fucked up my make up so I’m doing it myself.”

“Er, I’m sorry things aren’t running smoothly. If you could just finish up as quickly as you can I’m sure everyone would appreciate it.”

She stands up at this point and looks me in the eye. Bloody hell, she’s my height in those heels. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready. I’ve been doing this a while and I don’t need some fucking jumped up little gopher telling me how to do my job,”

The Harlequin is not impressed by her tone. “There’s really no need for insults, I’m merely trying to make sure the guys I’m working with have enough time to get to the next show and know what’s holding them up.”

“I’ll decide if it’s time for insults! Those fuckers can wait for me, it’s their job”

And at this point the Harlequin’s brain / mouth filter failed.

“And it’s your job Miss Well-known-soup-brand to get here on time and walk up and down without falling on your arse.”……Crap.…I just verbally bitch slapped a supermodel. Oh dear.

As what I said permeates her head a tactical withdrawal seemed like the proper move so the Harlequin about faces and marches out passed some rather awestruck make-up artists. I hear a fairly incoherent shout but don’t turn and then I’m back safe and sound front of house. Another 5 minutes and the show started with the snappers all commenting that a certain model had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp on her. At the end of week party that night after a few glasses of bubbly I fessed up to the boss and made it clear that it was my last season. She agreed it was probably for the best and then got me good and drunk. Drunk enough that I had the balls to go and chat up an underwear model. But that’s another story…

I got stoned with Graham Chapman
Appropriate really, with the Python's 40th anniversary an' all. My very best mate's uncle was the late Graham Chapman. I met him a few times but this was undoubtedly the best. It was 1984. He was guest of honour at a small restaurant party to celebrate my mate's 21st Birthday. After it all finished were going back to his Mum & Dad's place but as Graham had driven straight there from London he didn't know the way. "I'll navigate!" I practically screamed. Another mate also blagged a seat too & 10 minutes later there we were being driven through the Northamptonshire countryside by Graham Chapman in his Aston Martin. I took out all the bits to begin skinning up & he reached over & opened the glove compartment. "Easier on there, I think" he said. Perfect - a lovely little walnut table with an inlaid mirror. (It would have been perfect for a different kind of narcotic, shame we didn't have any. I think Aston really knew their market in those days!) Not only that but he produced a ready rolled spliff from his pocket & invited me to spark it up while I was rolling. I was happier than a pig in shit. Getting stoned with one of my all-time heroes in an Aston Martin.

Sadly, of course, only five & a half years later the man was dead. So it goes...

Back in the mid nineties, I hit the grand old age of 21.As tradition would have it, an all day drinking session was called for and so after many hours of severe alcohol abuse, I found myself in a bar near the Leeds City Varieties (theatre/music hall).

I'm guessing Frances de la Tour (of Rising Damp fame) was starring at the previously mentioned theatre, as at the other end of the bar she stood. Enjoying a quiet post performance drink, with a sophisticated group of theatre types and hangers on.

I on the other hand was having a not so quiet drink with very much unsophisticated group of reprobates!

"Hmmm Miss Jones" says I, in a truly terrible Rigsby impression.More Rigsby lines followed as I walked towards her, I somehow convinced myself that she would be amused by this.

Reports from friends convey that at some stage in the 20 or so feet that I walked between us, I managed to change my impression (confusingly) in to Fletcher from porridge - I'm guessing I was confused about Richard Beckinsale appearing in both shows.

Eventually my impression/stager made its way to Ruth.I took a final step, repeated "Miss Jones", tripped, fell forwards, landing face first in her cleavage.

I snuggled in their warm embrace for a mere second but it felt far, far longer.

"Well really" she exclaimed in a rather posh voice.

I staggered back, grinning like a mong. Stumbled again and knocked myself out on a bar stool.

Not my story but...
Since this is apocraphyl, I'm not quite sure it fits in this qotw, but as a celeb story I like it, so tough. As an actor you quickly get to hear who the utter arseholes are and less often who the nice ones are.

There's a lovely story that I heard about Sean Connery from another actor I know, on the 1979 film The Great Train Robbery.

It centres around Michael Elphick who used to be Boon in the 80s and in the last few years of his life was a regular on Eastenders. Elphick was a legendary boozer and his alcohol problems almost certainly contributed to his early death.

Anyhoo, on the set of this film, he arrives one morning with a stinking hangover, having been in the hotel bar most of the night and he doesn't know his lines - at all. Now this is bad, very bad. If you hold up filming because you've been on the sauce all night and you're a small part, you'll probably cost the production a lot of money.

Result is you'll get fired and the damage to your reputation as a professional doesn't bear thinking about. So understandably, Elphick as well as feeling like shit is slightly nervous. He arrives on set stinking like a brewery, says hello to Connery who acknowledges him with a slightly surprised glance, and then he quickly tries to knuckle down to get his lines in.

Half an hour later he's on set for a scene with Connery and he's shitting himself. Scene starts, Elphick gets his first couple of lines out and then... miracle of miracles... Connery screws up!

2nd take, Connery stumbles through his first lines, Elphick gets through his next couple of lines, and then Connery does it again - dries like an 8 year old doing the school Christmas show.

3rd take, 4th take, 5th take and the same thing keeps happening, they get a little bit further each time and then Connery keeps screwing up - to the extent that he's starting to look like an amateur.

Elphick meanwhile is starting to get on top of his lines and is thinking that Connery really isn't all that impressive as an actor, but, hey, he's the star so what can you do?

After another few fruitless takes, Connery apologises to the cast and crew, and asks if he can take a break for 20 minutes to get his head sorted, and when they come back, they'll do the scene in a take and be done with it.

Elphick can't believe his luck, and so goes outside for a quick coffee and cigarette. As he's stubbing his fag out round one of the backs of the trailers, Connery walks round the corner and says 'Alright Michael, do you think you know your lines now?'

Connery had deliberately screwed up every single take to help Michael Elphick out and save his reputation. Connery as the huge star could get away with it. So, if anyone gives you any nasty gossip about Sean Connery, don't believe a word - they don't come much nicer.
(sugar_tits, Wed 14 Oct 2009, 13:45,
6 replies)

Laughing footballers
Many years ago, when I still lived with my parents, we lived across the road from a rather well known premiership footballer. My folks are still there now, but he's now retired and moved back to London. We got to know him quite well over the few years he lived there.

It's a lovely place with a leafy private road and is always pretty quiet. He would often have other players over, and it was nice to see all the great cars outside on the road.

This one day in particular, he was out chatting to some other well known players, all stood around their flashy cars. I was also outside and had noticed them.

Being one of three brothers, there were always footballs lying around the place, and there just so happened to be one on our front garden, a little way back from the garage door.

A brilliant plan hit me, i'd run up and 'bend it like Beckham' into the top corner of the garage door. The guys would see this and of course i'd be having trials at the club in no time.

Things couldn't have been different.

Rather than take a few steps and kick the ball, I sprinted at the ball as fast as I could, ready to smash it through the garage door to a round of applause from my audience.

As I was just appraoching the ball, I took my eye off it to check I was being watched. Unfortunately I was, and unfortunately due to the last second loss of eye contact with the ball, I missed it. By a fooking country mile.

My leg swung in the air infront of me and panic instantly took over. The force of my kick not hitting the ball lifted and rotated me in the air, leaving me to land down hard on my arse.

The sound of grown men laughing so hard they can hardly catch their breath is quite something. I think I even heard one of them say they thought they might be sick they were in such hysterics.

My pride was in tatters, and my arse was sore from landing on the block paving. The only thing I could do was get up, and shout at them all to f*ck off. Which I did and then ran away as fast as I could.

Did I mention that I was about 17 at the time(!), and will always remember this as one of the wost experiences of my life.....

Oh the shame....
(big permis no good with them there 'puters, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 16:37,
3 replies)

A how to guide to wind up Camden's favorite crackhead
If you happen to visit Camden Town you’re more than likely to encounter that pikey scumbag druggy conehead, Amy Winehouse and her posse of annoying hipster hanger-ons, buzzing round her like the proverbial flies round shit.

I’ve had a few pub encounters with this crack-tacular knob head in the years I’ve lived in North London. And I can say without doubt the best way to turn our dearest Amy into a raging, spitting, seething mass of rediculous hair, shit tattoos with the accompanying sort of verbal assault that’d make a nun’s hair turn white in a milisecond is to do the following-

Wait until she’s absolutely falling over shitfaced (usually round the Good Mixer at about 11pm; any night of the week). Allow her time to stagger out - silently count to ten in your head - and when you follow after her she's absouletly guarenteed to be having a little sit down rest on the pavement (usually near the comic book shop a few doors down). Leisurely walk past her while similtaniously reaching into your pocket. And then casually toss a couple of 10 pence pieces into her lap while commenting to your mates: “Terrible thing, this homeless problem."

Absolutely guarenteed to get the mental bitch pissing blood and giving you a crash course in new, interesting and downright flamboyant swear words, this is.

Caution: Remember to wind Amy Winehouse up responsibly. Never attempt to do this unless you're wearing running shoes – that girl can run suprisingly fast when she builds up a head of steam.

Stephen Gately
Met him in Majorca this week, and went round to his flat for the night.

Things didn't go so well.
(Captain Skippypooed in a bag and left it on your doorstep, Sun 11 Oct 2009, 20:51,
1 reply)

Bob Geldof's Daughter
I'd always secretly fancied Peaches Geldof since she first started appearing in the newspapers at 16. I'm not sure if it was the trying-desperately-hard-to-be-cool aura she gave off, or the fact that she looked as if she'd let you wank into her handbag without batting an eyelid.Yes, she wasn't the type of girl I'd typically go for, but there was definitely something about her that I found most alluring, and so, I had a big crush. With her being the daughter of one of the most famous men in the country, and the fact she'd started the make a name for herself as a 'celebrity', I knew my chances of anything happening (should we ever meet) were incredibly low. Fate, however, works in a funny way, and it was on a sweaty summers day that I finally got my chance to chat up Peaches Geldof.

It was a Friday and I was in Camden for a meeting with a client. It was nothing too fancy; I was in casual attire and we held the meeting over a pub lunch - all went well. It went so well in fact, that an agreement was met earlier that I had expected, and so I had a couple of hours to kill, rather than go back to the office until the end of the day. I went into the Arizona Bar for a pint, whilst I perused the newspapers and contemplated what to do next. Out the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl come into the bar and ask to use the toilets. I didn't pay too much attention to be honest; I was deep in thought. It was only when I heard the girl return that I did look up, and to my surprise it was Peaches Geldof, dressed all fashionably, with sunglasses on despite being inside, a leopard print dress and finished off with a moody pout.

'It's now or never', I thought, rather hastily to myself, and I called out her name.

"Peaches!", I shouted. She turned and looked at me as if I'd farted in her mouth.

"Erm, can I get a photo with you please?", I enquired, rather less boisterous than my first call.

Peaches smiled almost awkwardly, and then agreed to the photo and came over to my table. As we got chatting, I lied to her about my 'love for fashion', and talk turned to Peaches wish to bring out her own label. I explained that I may be able to help her, and offered her a drink, which she accepted without hesitation. As we continued to chat, I forgot that I was talking to quite a famous person; to me she was just another girl down the pub, although as the drink intake increased, she was beginning to look very attractive indeed, and my confidence levels soared tenfold.

"Peaches?", I said softly, and I began to trace my finger up her ankle, following the outline of a garish flower tattoo she had running all the way up her leg.

"Do you fancy getting a hotel room?" I continued, finger now at the top of her thigh. Peaches blushed. She tilted her head forward slightly, and then looked up at me. A smile formed across her delicate lips,

"Not yet, mister! Let's have a few more drinks first".

'What a tease', I thought, before agreeing. We made our way to another small pub, of which I don't remember the name, where Peaches was good mates with the owner. We started on shots of sambuca; I don't think I spent any money, much was the willingness of the bar staff to keep our drinks topped up. After an hour a so, Peaches took me by the hand and led me up some stairs at the back of the pub. I asked where we were going,

"It's ok. I stay here a lot - I basically have my own room", slurred Peaches. Her faux New York/London accent was turning me on something rotten. As we reached the top of the stairs, she pushed me into a room and we started kissing. It was drunken, sloppy kissing, but it was passionate. My hands began to wander, but every time I ventured south towards her cock-slot, my hands were pushed away. I had a raging erection, and I was willing Peaches to take it in one of her grubby little hands. But she wouldn't.

We carried on kissing and I think she sensed my sexual desperation. "I'm sorry, we can't shag", she said, every word punctuated with a kiss. "I have a fiancee"

"Well why the fuck am I here then?" I asked. I remember feeling both angry but incredibly aroused by the fact that she'd used the word 'shag'.

"We can watch each other?", Peaches mumbled. Well, that was enough for me, I was naked in no time, and I slipped her out of her dress. She lay onto a bed and began strumming away like George Formby on speed, whilst I stood over her, tugging myself silly, trying to aim my pulsating bell-end at her mouth in case I had a chance of receiving a sly suck. The site of a drunken Peaches Geldof, fwapping away blissfully, was mesmerising. My whole body tensed as an arc of gooey mess shot from my rigid rod and landed on Peaches' leg.

"THAT'S FOR 'DO THEY KNOW IT'S CHRISTMAS?' YOU FRIGID TWAT", I shouted as my first release trickled off her leg onto the bed. Peaches was in a daze, but carried on rubbing her flaps slowly. I felt the urge to go again,

"AND THAT'S FOR LIVE 8, YOU SHOWER OF SHIT", my jism landed a good foot short of hitting her again. I knew it was time to leave. I dressed hurriedly and fled, leaving Peaches half cut and half naked in the upstairs of a pub.
(Monkey the ChickenTwitter: death_stairs, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 8:01,
11 replies)

They’re just like you & me you know…

Over the years, a few select pillars of our cultural and artistic elite have borne witness to my presence…and some have even made physical contact with me…

The probem is, however, that I’m really shy, so I don’t like them knowing who I am…

For instance, In 2002 I posed as a journalist and got in to a special press conference being held by the glamour model ‘Jordan’. I felt my trouser-bulge swell anxiously as she gave me a teasing wave, but unfortunately I was soon asked to leave, as she apparently found my line of questioning ‘distasteful’. She’s one to fucking talk! But suffice to say, I unfortunately never got to find out if her big hairy moip needed sewing up after she had dropped that massive fatspack sproglet.

My celebrity watching hobby didn’t start there though…Many years ago I once wore a manky old animal fir and sneaked into a party hosted by none other than Nicholas Parsons! My plan was to lay by the fireplace and pretend to be an elaborate hearthrug. It worked like a charm! I nearly pappered my grundies with blissfull jizz when I was not only trampled by King Nicholas himself, but also by some bloke off Eastenders who played the guy that replenished the washing powder in the Laundrette vending machines.

6 months later I crashed a cocktail party in Kentish Town wearing high heels, a low-cut top and a blonde wig. Despite my Size 11 feet, 5 o’clock shadow and capacious beergut I still managed to get brutally arse-raped by John Leslie…And all I was after was a signed photo.

Once I was bitten by the celebrity bug my disguises started getting more and more elaborate. Through the summer of ’95 I had adopted the persona of a champion showjumping horse and toured the well-to-do areas of Britain. Once in the same day, I not only had HRH Princess Anne fart out a squelchy one whilst astride me, but I also received a sly undercarriage fondle from Zara Philips!.. Unfotunately, the success of my idea went to my head and I took it further – resulting in a trip to America and a bit of an unfortunate incident with Christopher Reeve which I’d rather not talk about right now. Those fences were fucking high though.

However, my taste for meeting with royalty had properly taken hold of me and In mid ’97 I sent some time razzing around by the Hilton Hotel in Paris, disguised as a white Fiat Uno. One night I actually got quite close to Pricess Di you know – but her fucking chauffer drove faster than I could keep up with and I lost her …Come to think of it, I haven’t heard much about her since that night – Is she still our ‘Queen of hearts’?

After coming back home I used a combination of rubber tubes and tippex to fashion myself as a toilet in the changing rooms of the London Hippodrome. I thought Victoria Wood was going to be performing that night but unfortunately, and to my lasting regret, she had to cancel at the last minute, and without my knowledge she was replaced by Bernard Manning. I was washing putrified lumps of half-chewed black pudding out of the back of my throat for a fortnight.

More recently I disguised myself as a soap dispenser in the VIP toilets at the O2 arena when Kylie played there. I can’t describe the feeling of satisfaction as I watched her slip off for a sneaky dump, then approach the sink and proceed to pump repeatedly on my dangling nosh-nozzle. Her look of relief as I finally produced drizzles of lumpy ejaculate for her to smear over her hands and face was a vision I will always cherish.

My Latest coup has gone sour however. I was planning to pass myself off as a pair of spangly tight underpants and have Michael Jackson wear me during the finale of his upcoming tour. In preparation for the event I wanted to check what size he wore, so I flew to the US and hid in his undercrackers drawer. I was quite taken aback one morning when he opened the drawer bollock starkers, but thinking that he must have a sense of humour I pointed to his tiny floppy appendage and shouted “A-HEE-HEE!”

How was I to know he had a heart problem? – I spent ages on that costume…the selfish cunt..

Rhodes
A few years ago we were going round schools looking for a suitable place in which to put eldest male bofkin for his secondary eduction.The group of parents we were in included one celebrity chef.. Gary Rhodes.Towards the end, I couldn't resist it...Me : "Hi.. I just wanted to say how much I enjoy your programmes"He : "That's very nice of you"Me : "It's a pleasure to have met you, Ainsley"He : "..........." (silence)

How to be smooth and urbane in front of a lady with incredibly nice tits
Went to see Silverchair down at Brixton Academy with my mate Eric a couple of years back. We get in, sink some beers, drink some more beers, drink a few more after that – you know the drill.

Then we go and find a nice spot to listen to the band. I’m all up for going down to the front, throwing some shapes, feeling some arses (the law of averages says a few of these arses would belong to a female of some description, but - thinking about it - when I’m drunk I’m not really that fussy), but Eric’s a bit of a music buff. He likes to hear the band properly. So we end up standing next to the little pit area with all the computers and the geezer with the cans on his head, twiddling all the little buttons. Apparently, according to Eric, this is the best place to stand if you want the perfect stereo blah-blah-blah-bollocks-etc-etc-etc.

I was interested in something else. I was interested in the incredibly beautiful lady stood next to the little bank of monitors and knobs – it was the Silverchair lead singer’s Mrs. It was that Natalie Im-something-or-other.

I turn to my mate Eric, suddenly excited. I smack him on the arm, point at this vision of Antipodean loveliness and shout: “Look its Natalie Imru-, Natalie Imbrug-, Natalie Imbrururu-, IT’S THAT BIRD OUT OF NEIGHBOURS WITH THE PERFECT TITS !!!”

I felt a tap on my arm: “I’m stood right next to you,” said the bird out of Neighbours with the perfect tits.

Eric and I gave out a little yelp and ran off, what with us being manly, butch, men type men...
(SpankyHanky, Thu 8 Oct 2009, 14:39,
3 replies)

Not Me But My Dad...
Who is a typically blunt Lancastrian man.

At a party held by a landowner [and thus rich] friend of his in the Midlands, who should my Dad find himself stood next to, but Miranda Richardson...

By way of introduction my Dad offers "I've seen you on television, haven't I? You're the actress Miranda Richardson?..."

"No" she responds tersely, "I'm an Ac-TOR",

Following on my Dad replies "Yes, you were in "Blackadder" weren't you?

Ms Richardson nods approvingly.

And, finally with a straight face, intent on bringing her down a notch or two, he goes in for the coup-de-grace:

Idiot...
I live in Slebsville and scootering to work I'll often encounter a tramp-like Helena Bonham Carter, a half-pissed Hugh Laurie and maybe a Gallagher or two standing menacingly by the school gates.

But it was another member of my local celebrity crew that really showed himself up one morning.

I was happily tootling along on my trusty Vespa, when I had to slow down for a huge, black with blacked-out windows Audi Q7 (look the fucker up if you wanna see what an absolute Cuntmobile this car is).

This 'car' had slowed to a complete halt in the middle of the road, so I made a move to swerve around the right-hand side of it. A bad move as it turned out. As I endeavoured to pass the beast, it too decided to swerve to the right, with no indication at all. I screeched to a halt and narrowly avoided slamming into the side.

Utterly incensed and filled with the kind of confidence that only comes when wearing a full-face helmet and steel-ribbed gloves, I pulled up to the driver's door of the 'Sports Utility Vehicle' and banged on the window.

The tinted glass whirred its way down. The driver kind of leaned out holding what looked like a photograph.

'Haven't you got any fucking indicators,' I yelled at him, 'you almost fucking knocked me off my bike!'

Having vented, I felt my rage ebbing away and as I waited for the driver to reply, I took a long hard look at him.

'Er...sorry mate,' the driver replied, 'it's a new car...not sure where everything is yet.'

Fair enough. At least he apolgised. Then I looked again at what he was holding - it was a small, black and white, signed picture of himself.

'What's that for?' I asked

'Oh, I thought you were another one after an autograph.' he wittered.

Then it clicked. It was only that cunt Jude Law. Moron thought I'd stopped him for a fucking autograph.

'Autograph? Learn how to bloody drive.' I shouted as I pulled way, adding for good measure: 'And you were SHIT in Star Wars!'

Wizard vs Jedi
Living in London and having a job where I’m out and about a fair bit, I’ve run into quite a few celebrities. The encounter that stands out the most for me was when I was in a black cab heading towards Hammersmith, crawling down Kensington Road just near Hyde Park.

Bored, feeling my arse grow increasingly numb on the hard seat, I glanced to my right and saw – well, fuck me! That looks like – yes! It is! It is! I very nearly creamed my pants.

I wound down the window and as we trundled past at all of five miles an hour in the terrible traffic, I screamed: “Use your Jedi mind trick! Go on! Go on! Use the trick! Go oooonnnnn!!!”

Ewan McGregor looked up, appearing incredibly pissed off, as the large Nigerian traffic warden lady wrote him out a ticket for illegal parking.

And because we were going so slowly, Ewan’s gaze bore into the back of my skull like a pair of laserbeams until we’d driven past. Didn’t help Ewan's mood that I was chuckling merrily to myself as we went.

The taxi driver said: “Was ‘e famous? ‘E looked familar 'e did...” I explained who the bloke was. The taxi driver digested this information, mulled it over for a bit, then said, matter-of-factly: “I 'ad that gay wizard from the Lord of the Rings in 'ere the other day.”

And by the time we arrived at our destination in Hammersmith, I'd had the most incredible conversation with a taxi driver ever: Who'd win in a fight to the death - Gandalf the Gray or Obi Wan Kenobi...

International Incident - Near Miss
Ten or so years ago I was involved in sales, and accordingly had to travel nearly every day. This meant a lot of hanging around in airports, teleconferencing and all that other mundane corporate twaddle.

Anyhow, one particular day in between flights I had booked a small meeting room at Auckland airport to fit in a teleconference with some important clients (i.e. handsome potential commission). Halfway through my call, a lady from the airport staff nervously enters, and after interrupting my call, humbly requests that I leave the room early, acknowledging that I had indeed booked it. As I was having a bad day, I refused and said I will be out in ten minutes if that could be accomodated.

The airport lady shuffles out, however not a minute later a large portly pacific gentleman in a Tommy Cooper hat bursts into the room. Now I am annoyed.

"Listen mate, I told the airport lady I will be out in ten minutes. I've got it booked so sod off alright".

The gentleman retires, closing the door. Again, not a minute later two more pacific gents burst in. They are a real pair of brain hurters. Both over six foot six, but now I am not a man to be trifled with...

The hurts look at each other and leave closing the door. Peace at last. I finish my call, and as promised I vacate the room within ten minutes. On the way out, I pass the airport lady and ask what the fuss was all about.

As it turns out, apparently the King of Tonga does not like waiting in the lounge like everyone else, and particularly doesn't like being told to sod off. oops.
(Mandrill, Mon 12 Oct 2009, 3:38,
2 replies)

Top of the tits
I was in the audience at top of the pops and shouted at nelly furtado to get her tits out just at the point of the music dying down.

I tried to pass it off as someone else by looking at the bloke next to me and tutting but sadly it didn't work so i ended up getting chased and kicked out by the bouncers.

In Victoria Station a few months back...
Had just met up a friend who also happens to be on b3ta, and shall remain nameless (although let's just say that his name ends in "halaa" and starts with "moo"). and we were standing in line at the W.H. Smith's. He was loudly and somewhat profanely critiquing my choice of clothes for the day, which included a waistcoat (and to be honest did look bloody stupid), when I hear a man say "Nice waistcoat.""Thanks" I say, and look up to find that it is in fact Bill Nighy, standing further along in line with a newspaper folded under his arm. I do a double take, while my friend is entirely unfazed. "Yeah, it's very nice." he continues, and then turns to look at my friend wearing a bright neon green shirt and says "Not sure about your shirt, though. It's a bit garish."

I was incredibly pleased, and spent much of the remainder of the day informing him he'd been "pwned by Bill Nighy." Then he twatted me around the head.